


December 26, 1799

by sebviathan



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Banter, Fluff and Angst, Historical Accuracy, Holding Hands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5290124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A grieving, lonely Hamilton invites Burr to take a walk with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	December 26, 1799

**Author's Note:**

> This is as historically compliant as you could possibly get. More compliant with history than the actual musical, even. I did a disproportionately huge amount of research to get it right, and also made an effort to make their speech patterns match the century they're in. 
> 
> Also, I say "compliant" as opposed to "accurate" because I obviously don't have proof that this all happened--there is merely no proof that it didn't.

The news arrived in Philadelphia on the 20th. Six days, he was given, to find time to set aside his grief and organize a funeral procession.

Alexander wishes he could attend the actual funeral in Mount Vernon instead—it would feel more personal, more right, more like he was mourning as a friend instead of as a patriot. All of America can and  _will_  grieve but they only know the loss of a president, of the man who led them to freedom. They don't know  _his_  loss.

Of course, he's sure the actual funeral already took place. He's also sure that Martha would have liked him to be there, but what's done is done.

The procession starts at noon and stretches into early evening, leaving Alexander now not only emotionally exhausted, but physically (not that that's ever stopped him before). Most businesses close, and the crowds gathered to witness guns firing and listen to eulogies are a sea of black. What with most surfaces frosted over, it truly seems to be a colorless day.

Once it ends (the official proceedings, that is—national mourning will last for the next sixty-nine days), Alexander does not intend to go directly home. Eliza surely shares his grief, and in fact has been much less cold with him lately, but that's really the problem; he's not ready to face her comfort.

His feet, at least, have other plans.

Meanwhile his eyes almost seem to glaze over while his legs drag him, just conscious enough not to walk into anything—so when he finally stops, he genuinely does not know how he wound up on Aaron Burr's doorstep. Though he can't say he's surprised.

Alexander removes his hand from his pocket and knocks.

Moments later, the door opens, and the man on the other side seems to experience a moment of dread alongside his surprise. When he seems to also be unable to think of a suitable greeting, Alexander speaks instead:

"Aaron Burr, sir."

For the first time in a while, he says it without a smile.

"...If you're here to berate me for not attending the memorial," Burr finally starts—but he hardly gets out another word before being interrupted.

"I'd like you to take a walk with me," he says, though not entirely of his own volition. He doesn't think he knew he wanted that until the moment he said it—and now, as he leans just slightly forward in earnest, he knows he won't be returning down the path alone. "...Please."

Burr doesn't look like he's hesitating so much as he's deliberating. Just as always, he thinks through every word he says far too long in advance.

"Well, I—"

"I'm sure Theodosia can look after herself at this age, if that worries you."

"I was going to say that I'll need a moment to get my coat and gloves," he tells him, huffing in amusement.

Oh. "Take your time."

Somehow, and for a reason he can't place, he means it.

Burr does not, in fact, take his time. Which is a bit of surprise. Within twenty seconds he returns with a black coat (likely only due to the social obligation) and gloves, shutting the front door behind him.

And he says nothing, but simply walks by his side off of the property and down the street as per Alexander's request. For that time Burr's mere presence is nice, and Alexander is grateful.

But he supposes the man's company isn't the only thing he wants.

"I know you never held Washington in very high of a regard," is the first thing of substance that comes out of his mouth, and Burr looks at him sharply. His footsteps stutter. "And I'm not angry at you for it. You were never the sort to devalue him to my face, at least."

Burr sighs (in relief?) and, almost too quickly, responds:

"I'd never be so tactless. He was important to you."

"He still is."

"Of course."

At his swift agreement, Alexander frowns. Even now Burr sounds more like a politician than anything, even if he doesn't necessarily mean to. His voice is too soft, too smooth, too agreeable—though maybe that's just what he sounds like when he's attempting to be comforting.

They walk in silence for another minute or so. Long enough to put most townsfolk behind them.

And then, "It feels like a bad omen, doesn't it, what with his death happening so close to the turn of the year?"

Oddly enough, it's Burr who says it. And Alexander who looks over curiously for several seconds.

"I've been hearing people say that, yes."

"You don't agree?"

"I'm not sure if I believe in omens."

Something about that is funny to Burr, who lets out the slightest laugh. Alexander nearly smiles in spite of himself.

Outside the realm of religion and myth, though, he's positive that America truly is in for a period of darkness. Or perhaps just him—he knows, politically speaking, Washington's death will eventually put him in a spot. That is, without the ex-president to help defend his reputation when it's threatened.

But he's really not interested in politics right now. His mind is too numb to go there, to think so far into the future. He instead thinks entirely of the past.

Other than short musings here and there, they are silent again for a while. Alexander does genuinely find Burr's side to be a comfortable spot to simply... exist, even in this weather. Watching their feet until they're stepping in tandem, listening to the soft hum of his breathing, brushing up against him when the path becomes too narrow. Sometimes when it doesn't.

Eventually they cross a low stone wall overlooking the Schuylkill, and Alexander turns off the path immediately and wordlessly. This is a place he's often come to sit through his grief—not just with this, but past tragedy as well, such as Eliza's miscarriage. And while the whole  _point_  of this place has always been to be alone, right now he'd very much like Burr to sit with him.

And the man follows him, sits beside him without direct invitation—but he seems to recognize the importance of this place. Which naturally begs the question—

"You've hardly spoken to me in the past few years." Well, not so much of a question, but a prompt. "And with good reason, I admit. I haven't exactly been... the best of a friend to you."

Any other time Alexander would wish Burr could have the guts to be specific, to name all his crimes individually and at the very least admit what an ass he is (that would honestly be enough), but now he's glad for the vagueness. It fits in with the riverside air.

"You are, however, quite possibly the only close friend I have left, now," he says quietly, without taking his eyes off the river. "Now that Washington is gone from this world—and of course Laurens has been gone for so long... and while Lafayette is perfectly alive, I'm sure, we've had little correspondence."

"...I didn't think you would be willing to call us 'close friends' at this point," Burr seems to laugh, incredulous. His voice gives away a hint of awe, as well. "At best, a polite and occasionally amicable rivalry."

Alexander laughs softly to match, and very briefly glances to him in his peripheral.

"Well, I've let you know me better than most."

"By that definition, does your wife not count as a friend? The closest you've got, I'd expect, even considering the past two years."

"I would argue it's different with men," he shrugs. "A different kind of intimacy. No better, no worse—though Laurens was... the closest. I believe I loved him with the same intensity that I do Eliza."

He notes, vaguely, that he's willing to use past tense. He also notes that Burr makes no comment.

What Burr does, instead, is put his hand over Alexander's. The touch is disappointingly brief, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

"You know, realistically, I couldn't have possibly expected Washington to live much longer than this," he thinks to say, a self-pitying smile creeping into his lips. "And yet I did, in some way... His age never meant anything. All these years I've seen him as invincible— _immortal_ , somehow, and hardly once did I think I was a fool to do so."

"To be fair, I don't believe you've ever thought yourself a fool," Burr offers. "Not even when everyone else did."

"Do you?"

"Think you a fool? In some ways, sure—I've been telling you so since the day I met you. I'm sure you think me a fool for the same reasons. But for your devotion and attachment? No."

"...You refer to my emotions as separate from the object of them, I'm sure. I  _know_  you've always seen my relationship with Washington as no more than a political advantage."

His bitterness really comes out, then, but Burr either doesn't notice or ignores it.

"Any political grievances I might have don't reflect how I feel about you personally, Alexander. But you'll never believe me when I say it."

At that—particularly the usage of his first name—he tears his gaze away from the river and turns to look his friend in the eyes.

"Maybe you doubt me too much, Burr."

"Do I?" He sounds pleasantly surprised.

"Well, I've never necessarily believed political affiliations were the most notable aspect of a man's personality."

"...Except in the case of Jefferson."

Alexander actually barks a laugh, then. Burr's lips stretch immediately into a grin.

"Yes! Jefferson and slavers like him—they're an exception. But... yes, Burr, as much as we butt heads, which is... more often than otherwise, I sincerely hope you remain my friend. If pure animosity breaks us, you may be my most painful loss yet."

Part of him feels guilty for saying that, like it's an offense to Washington's memory to be taking this action now, but it's true.

And with it, Alexander shifts and covers Burr's hand with his own—this time, as opposed to a brief touch, he keeps his hand there. His eyes remain on his friend's (if that's what they can be, again), asking permission to let his hand do more than linger.

Burr answers by turning his hand over so that his palm is up, and locking their fingers.

"Truly?" he presses a moment later. "You want me in your life this way, after all I've done to you?"

"I could ask the same of you. I'm not innocent."

"Yes, you made sure the world knew that."

In lieu of a retort, Alexander searches Burr's eyes. He finds sadness in them, along with an intensity that resonates like hunger—he wonders if he's merely seeing a reflection of himself, though. With that thought he'd rather not get his hopes up.

"...I think I would be a fool to refuse you in my life any longer," he finally answers. "You were my first friend, after all."

"I suppose I should take pride in that." Burr squeezes his hand then, warm and firm. Alexander thinks he even sees a red tinge to the man's face.

Then he squeezes back, returning his gaze to the front—looking now beyond the river and to the horizon. Part of him knows, truly, that something will break them again. Hopefully not terribly soon, but it will happen, because it always does. Because it's been happening over and over again for twenty-three years now.

As he notes how quickly the sky is darkening, however, along with the weight of Burr's hand in his, Alexander feels that if he could just continue sitting here and enjoy this evening with him... that would be enough.


End file.
